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Insomnia, insomial, insomniac; Medusa is an insomniac who on this most insomnial night is suffering from insomnia.
This is not unusual, for Medusa is an insomniac. Chronically. It is, perhaps, to be expected and is certainly not strange, but it is constant. The last night she had a good sleep was, oh. She forgets when. The lack of sleep makes her snappish, naturally. Occasionally, snappish to the point of throwing things across the room and sobbing that she can't sleep, she can't sleep, she can't...But not always, for Medusa has a secret.
Most of the time, she doesn’t actually want to sleep.
To sleep runs the risk of dreaming, a very strong risk as she always has been a vivid dreamer and now her dreams…Her dreams are full of violence, blood, and she doesn’t know which is worse, the screaming or the ragged breathing in an otherwise silent room. In the end, it doesn’t matter which happens; she’ll wake up with either a scream herself, or she’ll be gasping, choking. Crying, sometimes, even as she paces, paces, paces and rubs her hands up and down her arms to remove the memory of him.
It’s worse in the build-up to one of her bad days, and Medusa can feel it crawling around the edges of her consciousness (she has Amphitrite's warning eachoing around her skull, and it's not helping). That edge of panic and rage where she has to scream just to be able to breathe in the next moment, the sickly hot flush that makes her palms sweat –
Medusa shakes her head, sharply. Enough of that, miss, and the voices in her ear sound like her (the snakes always do). Her footsteps are loud in the cave, as is the chiming of her feathers, but just as loud is the stirrings of her sisters.
Even if she doesn’t want to sleep, it wouldn’t be fair to wake them.
Shaking her head again, this time to keep her eyes open, Medusa heads down to where the sea flows into her home. It’s sandy here, comfortable, and she’s too tired to care that sooner or later the tide’ll come back.
She can’t drown, after all.
And she can’t sit with her wings, not really, so Medusa curls up on her side; right wing bending more than normal, her right ear cushioned against her upper arm as her right hand curls over her head, and her left always did tuck up underneath her chin.
From here she can see the sky, just. Not the Moon, not her, but the stars? Yes, she can see them. Bright, and more numerous than they used to be. Most people count them to lull their mind into sleep, but Medusa counts them to stay awake. She traces lines and patterns with her mind, creating solid shapes the way only a dyslexic mind can. She never notices as her right arm straightens to let her hand rest in the sand, and she never notices her eyes closing.
Medusa never notices that she’s fallen asleep.
(and while deep sleep held fast Medusa and her snakes)
This is not unusual, for Medusa is an insomniac. Chronically. It is, perhaps, to be expected and is certainly not strange, but it is constant. The last night she had a good sleep was, oh. She forgets when. The lack of sleep makes her snappish, naturally. Occasionally, snappish to the point of throwing things across the room and sobbing that she can't sleep, she can't sleep, she can't...But not always, for Medusa has a secret.
Most of the time, she doesn’t actually want to sleep.
To sleep runs the risk of dreaming, a very strong risk as she always has been a vivid dreamer and now her dreams…Her dreams are full of violence, blood, and she doesn’t know which is worse, the screaming or the ragged breathing in an otherwise silent room. In the end, it doesn’t matter which happens; she’ll wake up with either a scream herself, or she’ll be gasping, choking. Crying, sometimes, even as she paces, paces, paces and rubs her hands up and down her arms to remove the memory of him.
It’s worse in the build-up to one of her bad days, and Medusa can feel it crawling around the edges of her consciousness (she has Amphitrite's warning eachoing around her skull, and it's not helping). That edge of panic and rage where she has to scream just to be able to breathe in the next moment, the sickly hot flush that makes her palms sweat –
Medusa shakes her head, sharply. Enough of that, miss, and the voices in her ear sound like her (the snakes always do). Her footsteps are loud in the cave, as is the chiming of her feathers, but just as loud is the stirrings of her sisters.
Even if she doesn’t want to sleep, it wouldn’t be fair to wake them.
Shaking her head again, this time to keep her eyes open, Medusa heads down to where the sea flows into her home. It’s sandy here, comfortable, and she’s too tired to care that sooner or later the tide’ll come back.
She can’t drown, after all.
And she can’t sit with her wings, not really, so Medusa curls up on her side; right wing bending more than normal, her right ear cushioned against her upper arm as her right hand curls over her head, and her left always did tuck up underneath her chin.
From here she can see the sky, just. Not the Moon, not her, but the stars? Yes, she can see them. Bright, and more numerous than they used to be. Most people count them to lull their mind into sleep, but Medusa counts them to stay awake. She traces lines and patterns with her mind, creating solid shapes the way only a dyslexic mind can. She never notices as her right arm straightens to let her hand rest in the sand, and she never notices her eyes closing.
Medusa never notices that she’s fallen asleep.